картошка фрите : A Poem

Coping with first world problems in a third world through poetry. (Or reasons why I should never rhyme)

Oil. The essence of this abroad life

Potatoes. We cut them with a sharp knife.

Into the giant vat. Spizzle. Fizzle.

Soon the katorshka frite starts to sizzle.

Dinner once again has begun to fry

The third time this week. I think with a sigh.

Add a dollop of this ketchup-like sauce

Or eat them plain, with an oily gloss.

On occasion we may eat them with meat

But all day, every day: katorska frite.

Versatile. A blank canvas on my plate

Yet nightly, the same destiny and fate.

No child. You cannot have that delectable cake.

Not until you eat your katorska frite. Gir. Gir. Take.

It’s only food my mother gave me when I was ill

The plethora of fries on my plate formed a hill.

All our nutrition from a single meal,

Their presence is overwhelmingly real.

Dreams of osh palov begin to surface

A plate of rice, with a carrot-y lace

Maybe one day, something new I will eat

But until then, it’ll be katorska frite.